


March To The Sea

by DaisukiRose



Series: Twenty One Pilots Oneshots [1]
Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Everyone has numbers but basically nobody has names, FOB is in here if you squint, Gen, His number is Three, I Don't Even Know, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I made me a character lol find me guys, IDK it's good read it, March to the Sea, Marching, Rogue!Josh, Songfic, Stay Street, Tyler remembers his name, You gotta read between the lines, |-/ - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-11 20:40:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7906963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaisukiRose/pseuds/DaisukiRose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’d found an old book that had referred to their life partners as “wives” and “husbands.” It made a single mention to a “dime-piece wife” which is what he had taken to calling Sixty-Four. She didn’t remember her name, but that’s okay. She might not have even been given one, come to think of it.</p><p>Tyler didn’t like Sixty-Four. Well, he takes that back, he likes her well enough, but he doesn’t love her. His friend Ninety-Two had a partner, and he described the feeling of love, and he hadn’t felt that towards Sixty-Four at all. Sure, he’s heard plenty about how beautiful she is, and he agrees. She’s got long, straw-blonde hair and big, happy blue eyes full of compassion. Tyler doesn’t know what put him off of her so much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	March To The Sea

**Author's Note:**

> Me: *Has long fic I'm supposed to be writing*  
> Me: *lays in bed, listening to TOP and writing this shitpost instead*  
> Me: *to my brother* lol read it it's good
> 
> No, but seriously, I'm proud of this

Nobody really remembered their name. Sure, some of the more old-fashion families still gave their offspring “names” at birth, but everyone was assigned a number and it was much less confusing that way. There weren’t two forty-sevens, but there might have been two Michaels. It was better this way. Or, at least, that’s what the Elders said, so everyone else agreed.

Three still remembered his name. He had been given the number of a great councilman that had been Marched shortly before his generation, and he was expected to live up to it, but he had no intention of doing that. He still remembered his name, though, and that was rare.

Tyler.

The word was permanently etched into the center lobe of his brain, as if it were somehow of the upmost importance. 

Tyler, or Three as everyone else knew him, had just been assigned a partner, against all odds. His mental health forms had all but forbade him from reproducing because of what the doctors called “depression,” which was a major inconvenience to be dealt with. He’d been prescribed a pill, though, and that had seemed to fix the oddity. 

He’d found an old book that had referred to their life partners as “wives” and “husbands.” It made a single mention to a “dime-piece wife” which is what he had taken to calling Sixty-Four. She didn’t remember her name, but that’s okay. She might not have even been given one, come to think of it.

Tyler didn’t like Sixty-Four. Well, he takes that back, he likes her well enough, but he doesn’t love her. His friend Ninety-Two had a partner, and he described the feeling of love, and he hadn’t felt that towards Sixty-Four at all. Sure, he’s heard plenty about how beautiful she is, and he agrees. She’s got long, straw-blonde hair and big, happy blue eyes full of compassion. Tyler doesn’t know what put him off of her so much. They hadn’t been assigned their mutual house yet, so he went to ask Councilman Five about attraction.

Councilman Five had told them that they had been placed together because of “Optimum genetic potential for viable offspring,” whatever that meant, and that he “could not get a replacement partner, there simply wasn’t anyone else.” 

Apparently, arguing with councilmen wasn’t a great idea, and by the third time, he’d received an order to be Marched. The community was shocked – Not Three, they said, Three couldn’t have been Marched. They specially bred Three, he was perfect.

Apparently, they had bred him with a mind of his own. Apparently, that was bad, because he was being Marched along with the elderly, the derelict, the broken, the diseased, and the outlaws. Tyler didn’t belong at all. He sat in the Holding Center, hands placed on his knees, staring glumly at the floor. He didn’t mean to be Marched. He remembered the look on his parent’s faces, on Sixty-Four’s face, when they had been informed that he was going to be Marched. The absolute shock on his father, Eleven, the tears of his mother, Thirteen, and the broken expression on Sixty-Four’s. He didn’t mean to hurt them, not like this.

Somewhere around sunrise the next day, he was dragged to his feet by two guards wearing black bulletproof jackets. “I’m hungry. Where are we going?” Tyler asked, rising with the guards and being led out of his holding cell compliantly.

“Your funeral.” Guard number Forty-Three sneered at Tyler. His eyes were ringed in a thin line of black, his hair a bleached blonde with the roots showing through. “Come on, Three, you got told the tales of the March To The Sea just like the rest of us. It’s where they send all the broken people. You’re broken.”

“Hey, Forty-Three, calm down. Don’t rile up the Marchers.” The other guard, a short man with strawberry blonde hair that stuck up in all directions, who was named Sixty, said, sending him a glare. “We have to take him to get the injection.”

Tyler tried not to look as terrified as he felt at the prospect of a needle, an injection, something he most definitely did not need. He was taken roughly to a stark white room, he and the guards the only colour in the whole place until a doctor walked in, her bright red lipstick startling in the staunch white. She wordlessly grabbed his arm, rolled up his sleeve enough to get to his elbow, and unceremoniously jabbed him with a needle, making him cry out and squeeze his eyes shut. As soon as she started to repress the plunger, Tyler felt a wave was hover him, wiping him blank of feeling. His hunger faded to where it was only a niggling nuance at the corner of his mind, the pain of the injection merely trivial, his mind set in one direction: Forward. “How’s that, Three?” The doctor said, her voice sickeningly sweet, but Tyler didn’t take his eyes off of the door. 

“I have to March.” He said simply.

“Take him out.” The doctor ordered.

Tyler was taken out of the room and given a set of deep grey clothing – the top and bottoms both made of cotton. He was ordered to change and did so dutifully, his mind numbed by the injection so he forgot to be ashamed of himself for once. The chubbier guard with strawberry-blonde hair, Sixty, took a sharp breath at the sight of Tyler, and then began to scrawl down notes about him and his behaviour on a pad of paper. “Do you notice the imperfections on the thighs, the stripes?” He asked Forty-Three. The other guard made a noncommittal noise. “They’re the physical signs of the Depression. Do you think he’s Marching because he caught the Depression? Or,” he gasped at a thought. “The Suicide? Oh, do you think he’s contracted the Suicide? Forty-Three, he could be sick. Why did we get put with a sick one? What if he gives us the Depression?”

“Shut up, Sixty!” His voice was deep in his throat, but generally not a threat. He rubbed a hand over a tattoo around his neck, one of a collar of thorns. Only high-ranking guards were even considered in tattoos, and it was still in Tyler’s foggy mind somewhere to be in awe. “We’re just taking him to March, not taking him home. We won’t catch the Depression. He’s on a pill for it, anyways, if you bothered to read the paperwork.”

“You caught the Depression once, though.” Sixty pressed. “You could catch it again.”

“I’m cured.” Forty-Three said gruffly.

Soon, they led Tyler out of the room, one on each side of him, and into a long, winding line of people dressed in the same grey jumpsuits as himself. They were lined up with about two feet of space on either side of them, a person in front of them and a person behind them. Tyler’s eyes were trained straight forward, as were everyone else’s. He didn’t even notice when the guards let go of him, just listened to be told to March. He heard the Elder drone on and on about how broken people were sent to March To The Sea, to be washed and cleaned, to hopefully find a new life. Nobody really knew what The Sea was, but it supposedly helped wash away impurities like the Depression, the Suicide, Age, and Sickness. Tyler didn’t really care what The Sea was, the injection had made him acutely aware that he needed it. It would fix him. It would put him to sleep, and he would eventually be able to start anew.

A voice shouted “Look at the person in front of you! Look behind you! They are broken, and so are you! You’re broken! You’re broken people!” 

The man in front of him was grey with Age, almost as old as the Elders themselves. His number, Tyler vaguely remembered through the milky haze, was Eighteen, the original Eighteen. The girl behind him was a built larger, hazel eyes downcast, stripes from Depression or maybe the Suicide showing over the sleeve of her jumper. _Six,_ his mind supplied helpfully. She was also numbered after a Marched councilman. She was obviously very sick; the Depression is terrible. Tyler had almost been as bad as her once, he vaguely remembered, but was cured in time. Now, here he was, being Marched for something else. It was fate. 

“Forward!” The voice commanded, and Tyler started walking, following the man with Age that was in front of him. The March would keep him centered, give him something to focus on. 

And it did. It was the first time he’d ever left the city walls, and he wasn’t gazing around in wonder as he thought he would. He was staring straight ahead, watching the man with Age, and Six was watching him, all in a line. He momentarily wondered who the beginning person on the March was following, but that thought was pushed out of his head and his mind wend comfortably blank again, dust tickling his nose and making him sneeze. 

He didn’t know how long he marched until the man with Age in front of him fell to his knees. Something in Tyler screamed that this was not right, he wasn’t supposed to fall until they got to the Sea, and he tried to tug him to his feet but a voice in his head screamed “MARCH!” and Tyler did, Three did, because he must. He fell back in line dutifully, tears pricking his eyes at the loss of Eighteen, just as he registered it starting to rain. The person he was following now had their number tattooed on the back of their neck, it said Ninety-Two. He didn’t know why they were Marching, but he didn’t ponder on it for very long until he was mindlessly walking again, the trail of the March worn down under his feet. 

Rain, he quickly realized, was wet. It made the heavy cotton of his clothes stick to his limbs, and if he had the pretense not to like it, he wouldn’t have.

It was dark. Tyler didn’t know how long they’d been marching, but they hadn’t stopped, and he couldn’t feel the fatigue in his muscles that he knew must be there. It had been nearly twelve hours, he had to be tired, to be hungry, but he wasn’t. He’d blame that on the injection. He had grown used to stepping over the bodies of dropped Marchers, as morbid as it sounds. Many of those with Age had already dropped. He vaguely recognized Twelve among them, and felt a prick of sadness for a moment before he was emotionless once more. 

The rain had ceased the dust, though, and Three supposed he liked that. It was hard to sneeze and stay in line with everyone else that was marching. 

It was almost light out when the rain ceased, and Three was soaked. He supposed he should feel cold, but the injection was still coursing through his veins and kept him feeling warm, fed, and ready to March. He stepped on what appeared to be a white rock in the dust just to have it crack under his feet.

It was a skull from a fallen Marcher long before.

It was noon, the heat was sweltering and Three could feel waves of sweat pouring off of him, but still he marched. He felt unaffected, but his vision was starting to blur. He still dutifully marched, kicking up sand with every step. _follow me instead,_ a voice called from somewhere. _tyler, three, follow me._

Three looked left and right, but he couldn’t see the source of the voice. It wasn’t any of the other marchers, he knew that, so his head snapped back frontwards and he ignored it. “This line’s the only way!” Someone called from the front of the line, or at last farther up, and it seemed to be that answer to Three’s question. This line was the way. This was absolute.

_follow me._ The voice repeated, and Three looked around again in confusion. All he could see was were bushes, waves of grass, and dust. Maybe a symptom of the Depression was hearing things.

_tyler. follow me. look to the left._

Tyler looked again, only to see a bush, the same as all the bushes before it. Surely a bush couldn’t be calling him. _follow me. here. over here. please. tyler, listen to me, you’re special, follow me_

Every instinct told him to keep marching. Every instinct screamed at him to just continue, one foot in front of the other, following Ninety-Two, so he does. He looks up to see the beginning of the line, but only is able to see the top of a hill. 

As soon as the Marchers crest the hill, Three draws in a breath. He sees the most immense expanse of water he’s ever seen in his life, waves reaching the horizon and probably farther over that, and realizes that the line is Marching into it. “That’s the sea.” He whispers to himself, just as someone at the front of the line yells “This line’s the only way!” 

He prepares himself to March into the sea, and then hears it again. _tyler,_ it calls. _to the left, look at me. i’m right there. follow me._

Once again, Three looks over to his left, and sees a boy. A boy not much older than himself, dressed in crazy colours, his hair cherry red. “Follow me,” the boy whispers. “The sea is death, you don’t deserve death.”

Three shakes his head, looking back at the impending waves and the Marchers heading straight into it. The city wouldn’t send him to Death, would it? It’s sending him to be cured. This boy with the colours was wrong, that’s all there is to it.

“Tyler!” He pleaded. _tyler, follow me, that’s the sea and it’s death. please, choose life, follow me instead._

Three felt a hand on his arm, pulling him out of the line of Marchers, and crashing him to the sand next to it. “Come on, man!” The boy with cherry-red hair said. “Death! Do you want to die?” 

“I must March To The Sea.” Three said again, just as a girl with blue hair joined the boy with red.

“Who’s this, Joshie?” The girl says, sitting on the sand next to where this boy, Josh, is restraining Three’s hands.

“His number’s Three, but he has a name. He remembers it. Tyler.” He says as the blue haired girl reaches into her bag, pulling out a small vial and dropping a few drops of whatever was in it into Three’s mouth. Every instinct was screaming at him to throw himself into the sea, to finish the March. 

“I must March!” Three struggled as the liquid slipped down his throat.

“Tyler!” The blue haired girl says urgently. “There is no march. I’m Halsey, you’re Tyler, there are no numbers, wake up!”

“I am Three. I must March!” Three says, thrashing in the sand. His thrashing becomes slower as whatever the girl, Halsey, gave him kicks in. He coughs. “March,” he wheezes pathetically.

“No.” The boy, Josh, says. “Come on, Tyler, wake up.”

There’s something inside Three’s, no, Tyler’s, brain that snaps. A tidal wave of emotion and feelings and memories hits him like a wall of bricks, or rather, a wave from the angry sea. “I’m… Tyler?” He says tentatively. 

“Yes, that’s it, come on Ty Guy. It’ll be okay. You followed me, you broke it, that’s good.” Josh says.

Tyler immediately likes Josh, but there’s more pressing issues at hand. “I don’t want to March!” Tyler sobs, staring at the sea like it personally wronged him, staring at the line of people Marching into the depths in their heavy cotton clothes. “Stop it!” He yells at them, scrambling to his feet and waving his hands at the Marchers. “That’s death, stop it, it won’t help!”

There’s a hand placed on his shoulder, Josh at his side. “They can’t hear you.” He says sadly. “They’re not different. They’re already dead inside, really.”

“We gotta save them!” Tyler screams, watching as he sees Sixty-Four, his partner, his dime-piece wife was in the march. She was nearing the waves, her eyes dead, movements mechanical. “Sixty-Four, stop! Please don’t, not the sea, Sixty-Four!” He runs, tackling her to the sand like Josh had for him minutes ago, but she doesn’t respond. He gets off of her, looking into her eyes. “Sixty-Four, please, don’t go into the sea.”

“I must march.” She repeats almost robotically and rises to her feet, rejoining her place in line and continuing her march. 

Tears begin to slip down his cheeks as she doesn’t even seem to hear him, the ocean lapping at her ankles as she walks deeper, Josh grabbing one arm and Halsey grabbing the other as Sixty-Four disappears beneath the waves. “Nothing you can do.” Josh says quietly. “Mostly, they’re hardwired for the March. You’re special. Please, come with us, there’s so much to explain.”

**Author's Note:**

> I seriously don't know about this story, but I kinda like it. Jishwa is a bean. Tyjo is adorable, as usual. IDK. Comments, kudos, they're the fuel to my fire. I love each and every one of you! Stay street |-/  
> Your good fren (hopefully)  
> ~xoxodaisukirose


End file.
